


From Ashes

by wanderlustforever



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate World, Mentions of non-con, Multi, downworlder rebellion, downworlders are held as pows, shadowhunters use downworlders for their powers, where the circle won the war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustforever/pseuds/wanderlustforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec Lightwood is given charge of POW Magnus Bane on his 27th birthday. It changes their lives in ways neither imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

A Shadowhunter’s life is one of constant vigilance.

 

Wake up.

 

Don’t open your eyes, don’t move. Listen. Do you hear anything out of place? No. Is it too quiet? No. Is anything out of place? No. But if it were, there is a dagger under the pillow and your bow and quiver are in arm’s reach.

 

East breakfast. Bananas, eggs, toast with peanut butter. Scan the wards on your walls, make sure they’re all intact.

 

Go to the Institute. Tread carefully, Shadowhunter politics are complex and family feuds run deep.

 

Hunt. You can remember a time, when you were young and your parents were the ones bearing arms, when hunts were called patrols and a demon was something to be sighted once a month. Nowadays, the hunt happens every day, and still the demons come. Downworlders are a threat too, the Accords having been shattered during the Uprising. You know when you walk out of the Institute that you might never walk back in.

 

Protect Jace; he’s better at fighting than you are but he behaves like he’s immortal. Protect Izzy; she gets overconfident at times. You hate being their caretaker, their babysitter, but you love them and if you don’t do it, who will? Ignore that quiet voice that says they’ll learn to do it themselves.

 

Status report.

 

Go home, in one piece but barely. Swallow your rage at the recklessness that nearly got all three of you killed. Repress the idea that you’re fighting a losing battle; it is not in your place to question what Raziel intended for his children.

 

Have dinner. Food tastes like ash at this time of the night, but your body needs fuel. It is not yours to hurt or deprive; it belongs to the Clave, to use and deploy to their maximum advantage.

 

Check the wards.

 

Go to bed. Maybe, if you were good today and didn’t make any mistakes, maybe you can allow yourself five minutes to dream of that which is forbidden, to touch yourself and pretend that it is him.

 

Sleep.


	2. 2

 

It feels like a waste of time to be attending a Clave dinner when there are still demons out there to be slayed and Downworlder rebellions to be quelled, but your job is to be obey. One day, when you lead the Institute - if you lead the Institute - you’ll pass these duties on to someone else, but for now, you’re stuck.

 

Thankfully, your parents will be there to do most of the socialising. All you have to do is keep your head down and not offend anyone. If you can run an Institute, you can do this much. You do not like the people gathered here. They are cold, hard, cruel people, but you understand that sometimes such hardness is a necessity when you are at war with an unknown enemy. Nephilim were put on this earth as peacekeepers. You will keep the peace, no matter what the cost.

 

The old families are in attendance today; the Morgensterns, the acting heads of the Clave, the Lightwoods, the Branwells, the Penhallows and the Herondales.

 

The elders greet you when you walk past them, but none of them ask anything of you. If the Loghtwoods have anything to say, your parents will be their mouthpiece. You’re not important enough to be included in conversation yet, and not so ill-mannered as Morgernstern’s flame-haired daughter to elbow your way into them anyway.

 

You are used to being ignored.

 

It comes as a surprise when, after the plates have been cleared away and the port brought out, Valentine Morgernstern himself proposes a toast to you.

 

“To Alec Lightwood,” he says, his words like ice tumbling down your naked back “in honour of your 27th birthday.”

 

The guests raise their glasses in your honour. Your parents look proud; your mother seems to be glowing with the sort of happiness that is normally reserved for Jace.

 

Why then does it feel like you have walked into a trap?

 

“I have a gift for you,” Valentine continues. A weapon, you suspect. Perhaps a family heirloom. You’ll be obligated to exchange one with him, or his heir, in the future; your mother can worry about that. If it is a weapon, he’ll expect you to duel with him. Nothing dangerous, of course, but it will bring shame to your family if you cannot hold your ground. If it is a bladed weapon, archer boy, you will lose.

 

Valentine snaps his fingers, and a boy walks out of the shadows. Your first thought is that he is here to bring or unveil the gift that Valentine intends to give you, but the boy walks up to you and bows deeply. He’s beautiful up close, you notice, but there is little time to admire that beauty when you’re confused as to the game Valentine is playing; when your heart is racing at the thought that Valentine knows, somehow he knows and this whole night is a ruse to publicly shame you-

 

“I have too many of my own, but I couldn’t pass that one up when his previous keeper died and left him available. He’s a warlock. Use him well.”

 

A warlock.

 

A captured Downworlder.

 

Some Shadowhunters kill Downworlders who rebel; others capture them, and use them to do their bidding. They are little more than glorified slaves, no matter what fancy terms the Clave uses to refer to them. You are not surprised to find that Valentine is one of latter, although you are taken aback that he has so many Downworlders of his own that he’s willing to give away a warlock.

 

“Thank you.” The words slip out of your mouth, and you bow to cover up the fact that you are too shocked to say much more. Even your parents don’t have a prisoner - at least, you don’t think they do, but it has been years since you’ve been to Idris - so to give one to you before them is a startling breach of etiquette.

 

A silver-haired woman - a Branwell - seated on Valentine’s left speaks up. “Isn’t it a bit dangerous, though, to give him warlock?”

 

“His powers are bound, you know that,” Valentine replies. “And he’s been in service since we broke the Uprising, five of those with me. If he was going to act up, he would have done it by now.”

 

Over 25 years of captivity. You take a glance at the boy - should you be calling him that, if he’s older than you - but he looks younger than the person you see in the mirror every day. His eyes are turned to the floor, respectful, and you’re hit by a sudden desire to look into them.

 

“Alec can handle him,” your mother says then. It is a reassurance to them, a command to you. “We are grateful for your generosity, Valentine.”

 

“Oh, enough,” Valentine waves a hand. “Let the boy have a bit of fun. If the Downworlder starts to act up, you can always have him killed. It’s not like anyone’s going to miss him.”

 

The boy stands behind you all night. You don’t hear a word of anyone’s conversation, but you can hear him breathe.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. 3

“After today, he can portal you home whenever you like,” Valentine says as you leave his manor, warlock in tow. “Sure beats taking the subway, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” you say.

 

“He’s harmless,” Valentine continues, gesturing at his ankle. You know what you will find there: a band of magic inked into his skin, binding his powers to the bidding of Nephilim. “But still highly useful. Downworlders have access to a darker vein of magic than what is available to us.”

 

“Yes, sir,” you echo. Perhaps there is a reason Nephilim cannot do dark magic, but that’s not something you’re ever going to say to Valentine.

 

The warlock is quiet as he follows you home. You sneak glances at him, as if he’s the one in charge here and you’re afraid of offending him, but he seems oddly calm for a person who’s just been traded off like a spare set of gloves. A small part of you is offended that he’s taken this in stride and you’re two seconds away from ripping your hair out. You bury that thought. It is not the boy’s fault that you are a mess.

 

The wards activate when you walk through the door. The warlock’s eyes run over them, as if he’s reading. He is. He can read the runes. 

 

It’s a trap, your mind screams again.

 

“You’ll have to sleep on the couch for a few days,” you say. Until you can figure out how to leave him with someone who has use for a warlock.

 

That’s sleeping accommodations taken care of. Now what?

 

You look at him, properly, for the first time tonight. He’s wearing a flimsy black shirt thing that is almost see-through and black shorts, and you vaguely remember the other captured Downworlders you’ve seen before wear the same thing. Surely he can’t wear only this, right?

 

“You can borrow some of my clothes.”

 

The boy nods and bows slightly. His eyes track you as you move to your bedroom, but he’s careful not to look you in the eye.

 

Your skin burns under the potency of his gaze.

 

 


	4. 4

Sleep evades you.

 

How can you sleep with a stranger, a warlock, within your walls?

 

Toss and turn - quietly, though, you don’t want him to know that you’re awake - until both sides of the pillow are warm and the sheets are tangled. You want no part in the games Valentine plays, yet here you are. 

 

At dawn, shower and change. Walk to the living room, cautious. The ankle ring has never been known to fail to contain Downworlder powers, but its magic is not something you trust.

 

He’s still asleep. You’re suddenly aware how tall he is; not many people are taller than you, and he is not one of them, but he’s still tall enough that his feet dangle off the end of the couch that both Jace and Izzy fit in comfortably. The blanket you gave him is balled under his head. Perhaps warlocks are not as impervious to the cold as Nephilim. 

 

He looks... not evil. He reminds you of Jace the first night your parents brought him home, small and tired. Beautiful.

 

But he’s not Jace, he’s a warlock. You shouldn’t be letting your guard down.

 

Wake him. You would, but you realise that you don’t even know his name. Guilt bubbles in your throat; what sort of monster are you, that you didn’t even think of asking his name yesterday?

 

“Uhm, hey,” you say, tapping his shoulder.

 

He jumps, startled, and it takes him no less than half a minute to scramble to his feet and stand alert. Not many Shadowhunters can pull that off, even with training. Stop. You’re not responsible for cruelties inflicted by other people.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Magnus.”

 

Magnus. It is a name you know well enough; Magnus Bane, fallen leader of the Downworlder uprising. The more rebellious Downworlders take his name, perhaps as a sign of respect or remembrance. It appears this warlock is one of them. 

 

"I'm Alec." 

 

There is a glimmer of amusement in Magnus' eyes; he knows who you are. It's not like your name wasn't said often enough yesterday. 

 

"I have to leave now, so let me show you around the house first." It feels foolish - extremely so - to leave a Downworlder unattended in your house, but you are not ready to tell Jace and Izzy about what your parents have saddled you with. Not until you figure out what it is you are going to do with Magnus.

 

You keep a brisk pace, not wanting to show weakness. He follows a step behind you.

 

You show him your bedroom and training room first. "These are off-limits." They're locked as well, with powerful wards, and you hope that he will not try to break them in your absence.   

 

Next is your office. You have not brought back paperwork in the last week, so the only things in there are your books and stationery. "You can help yourself to anything you want to read. And you can take anything you want from the kitchen to eat, just let me know if we have run out of anything. Do you know how to cook?"  

 

"Yes." 

 

"Well, don't burn anything down." Not like Izzy, the first time she tried to cook. 

 

"I shall endeavour not to." There it is again, that glimmer in his eyes. He looks better like this, half-mischievious. Stop. 

 

"I should be back by noon, but my schedule can change. Don't wait up for me." 

 

 

“Wait, you’re leaving me here?” Magnus arches an eyebrow at you. “I mean, it’s your call, but you do realise that magic is a pretty here-and-now sort of thing, right? You can’t give me directions over the phone and expect accurate results.”

 

“It’s just for a couple of days.” He does not need to know that you do not intend to ask him for anything, magic or otherwise. 

 

Magnus’ expression darkens at that, but he doesn’t argue with you.

 

 


End file.
